


Please, Go to Sleep

by the_rat_wins



Series: Very Persuasive [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Breeding Kink, Hypnotism, Implied Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Light Bondage, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Mind Control, Possessive Behavior, Scent Marking, Self-Lubrication, Somnophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-31
Updated: 2014-08-31
Packaged: 2018-02-15 13:44:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2231223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_rat_wins/pseuds/the_rat_wins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is having trouble sleeping. Peter might be able to help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Please, Go to Sleep

**Author's Note:**

> Still MORE hypnotism shenanigans! Bulletproof kinks, man. You always come back to them. (Pun intended!)

"He's going to come to you and ask for help," Peter tells Derek one night. He doesn't need to specify. Stiles's presence hangs heavy in the air between them, deep guilt and misery from Derek, smug contentment from Peter.

After a long moment of sullen silence, Derek looks up from the book he's studying, then drops his gaze again, a familiar whiff of angst wafting off him. Peter sniffs, drinking it in. "That doesn't sound like Stiles," Derek says finally. "Not unless he was desperate."

"Oh, he is," says Peter, smiling. "Haven't you seen the circles under his eyes? Smelled his exhaustion?" Derek hasn't, of course. He avoids Stiles as much as he can, won't even look at him if he's in the same room. Terrified, clearly, that Stiles will realize what Derek has done.

Irrational. Also unnecessary. Stiles will never know. Not until Peter wants him to.

"He hasn't been sleeping," says Peter. Derek's jaw clenches, and Peter tracks the tension in his shoulders, the strain to keep himself from shifting out of pure anger. "I don't like it. And we both know I can help him."

The fact that he wants some time alone with Stiles, to wipe the taint of the nogitsune from his mind and body without Derek's issues crowding the room for once, is just a sweet little cherry on top.

"Fine," Derek snaps. "If he asks for help, I'll tell him to talk to you. Now would you shut up? I'm trying to read this."

Peter blinks at him innocently, then puts a finger to his lips. Derek rolls his eyes. Peter takes another deep breath: self-hatred, shame—and underneath it all, a thick note of arousal. Perfect.

***

Stiles is knocking at his apartment door, impatient, and Peter would be concerned with the concept of someone besides Derek knowing where he lives, but . . .

He swings the door open. "Stiles. A pleasure as always."

"The pleasure is all yours," says Stiles, leaning awkwardly in the doorway, but the comeback lacks his usual brio. The circles under his eyes are darker than ever. "Derek said—I don't know, he wouldn't exactly specify—but he said you might know of something . . ." He trails off, one hand gesturing vaguely in front of him.

"Something to help you sleep," says Peter, smiling pleasantly. "Won't you come in?"

"I don't know. Do I have to?" Stiles jokes weakly, and steps inside. Peter locks the door behind him.

"Whoa," says Stiles, craning his neck as they walk into the apartment. He stares up at the polished glass skylights, the warm afternoon light filling the space. "High ceilings are a thing with you guys, huh? I was expecting something a little more—"

"Denlike?"

"I was thinking 'evil lair,' but yeah, basically."

Peter walks to the refrigerator. "Can I get you a drink, Stiles?"

"Are you planning to poison it first?" He can feel Stiles's eyes on him, tracking his movements, like that would make a difference if Peter chose to turn around and rip out his throat.

"I have lemonade, Coke, or orange juice," Peter says. "And the cyanide is in the cabinet above the stove, if you want to help yourself."

"No," says Stiles, definitively. "Nope, I can't do it. I can't handle the weirdness of being offered a Coke by the guy who tried to kill us all two years ago."

Peter grabs one and throws it to Stiles, who flails but catches it. He pops the top, then has to gulp hurriedly as the soda starts to fizz out. His lips press against the metal, shiny-wet, just like they had been last month when he moaned and dropped to his knees for a taste of Derek's dick, both of them lost and mindless in Peter's trance.

"You know," Peter says, fixated on the sight of that slick mouth tightening and releasing, "you really need to learn to let these things go."

Stiles finishes gulping and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Well, we all have our weaknesses, I guess." He puts the half-empty Coke can down on the granite countertop behind him, then hops up to sit, legs splayed open, unintentionally inviting.

He stares at Peter expectantly.

Peter looks back, unconcerned.

Stiles's eyes narrow, and he opens his mouth to say something, but Peter holds up a hand, and he stops. 

Peter takes one of the stools lined up next to the counter and sets it in front of Stiles. When he sits down, their faces are almost level, and close enough that he can see Stiles's pupils dilating slightly and his breath speeding up—his body reacting to Peter's presence, even though his mind doesn't know why.

"Derek said you know something to help me," Stiles says, and his face is hard, but he isn't looking Peter in the eye. "Can you help me, or not?"

"I can help you," Peter says. "But you have to let me. Stiles, look at me."

"I am," Stiles snaps.

"No. Look," Peter says. Stiles is breathing faster now as he tries to resist. His long fingers are clenched around the edge of the counter, and Peter can see his knuckles whitening with the effort. The moment stretches out, but with a last little stutter of air—almost a sigh—Stiles drags his gaze up to meet Peter's.

Peter flashes his eyes once, almost too quickly to see, but Stiles's eyes widen in response, and his lips part.

"Good," says Peter. "Stiles, why don't you want to sleep?"

"I—" Stiles's voice is slow and thick. "I sleep. I sleep every night. I—"

"Stiles," says Peter patiently. "That isn't what I asked."

"Oh," Stiles says. His eyes are still locked with Peter's, and Peter gives him another quick flash. Stiles blinks, sways a little in place, and when his eyes meet Peter's again, he's farther gone, his face relaxing, his eyes dreamy and soft.

"He likes it when I sleep," Stiles confides. "He likes to be inside me, and it's easier when I'm not paying attention."

Peter feels a surge of possessiveness at the thought of someone not under his control touching Stiles. _He likes to be inside me_. No. The inside of Stiles belongs to Peter.

"Who likes it when you sleep, Stiles?" he asks, careful to keep his voice steady. "Who likes to be inside you?"

Stiles's breath is coming fast again, and his forehead creases.

"No," he whispers, and his voice is small and lost. "I don't—please, no—don't make me—if I don't—if I don't, then he can't—don't let me—"

His eyes have fluttered shut, and if he gets much more upset, he'll break the trance. Peter stands and catches both of Stiles's hands by the wrist. Stiles's long fingers are twisted together anxiously, but as soon as Peter grabs ahold of him, Stiles goes limp. Relief spreads across his face, although his breathing is still coming hard.

"Is that better?" Peter asks, studying Stiles's face intently.

"Yes," Stiles says softly. He's almost smiling now.

"Why?"

"I can't hurt anyone if someone holds me down." Stiles tugs against Peter's grasp, but his hands barely move. "Good," he mumbles. "That's . . . that's good."

"I could tie you up instead," Peter suggests.

_"Yes,"_ Stiles moans. He twists a little, squirming with excitement, his skin warm under Peter's hands.

"Shhhh," says Peter, and Stiles subsides instantly, his body tipping forward off the counter as his muscles relax all at once. He falls against Peter's chest, his face buried in Peter's neck, all his weight resting against him. 

"Sorry," he mumbles. "Sorry. Sorry."

"Good," Peter soothes him. "Good boy." He shifts his grip so both of Stiles's wrists are held in his left hand, while his right comes up to cradle the back of Stiles's head, tilting it so his nose rubs right where Peter's scent is the strongest.

"Smells good," Stiles whispers, his mouth open and hot against Peter's pulse.

His breathing is calm now, his heartbeat starting to sync up with Peter's. Slower and slower with each passing second. Peter strokes his head, and in answer, Stiles nuzzles him sleepily.

After a few long, quiet minutes, Peter squeezes the back of Stiles's neck, and he lets out a contented little moan, his hips bucking against Peter's.

"You like that?" asks Peter, amused. 

"Yeah," Stiles breathes. Peter raises an eyebrow. _Something to be explored there._ But for right now, his plans are focused elsewhere.

He uses one finger to tip Stiles's chin up so he's gazing trustingly at Peter.

"Are you ready, Stiles?"

Stiles nods, his cheek catching and rubbing against the fabric of Peter's T-shirt, scent marking him without even meaning to.

"Good." Peter nudges Stiles upright, still holding onto his wrists. He sways, but manages to stay standing, his eyes still fixed on Peter.

Peter studies him for a moment.

"Take off your clothes, then get on the counter on all fours," he says, and releases his wrists. Stiles almost falls over in his hurry to comply, the seams of his T-shirt catching against his nipples and rubbing them to unintentional hardness, his dick already rising in his boxers as he wrenches down the zipper of his jeans. 

Raking his eyes possessively over Stiles's skin, his broad shoulders, the sprinkle of dark hair on his chest and stomach, Peter wonders if the nogitsune enjoyed its conquest at all, or if it just thought of him as a tool.

Stiles jumps up onto the counter, an exact echo of his movement when he first arrived—but now he pulls his legs up too, sliding a little on the slick, cool granite, then lifts himself eagerly up on all fours.

"Good," says Peter, walking around him in a circle, studying him from every possible angle. He runs a finger along Stiles's spine, then taps on his neck. "Head down," he murmurs. Stiles's head drops like a string has been cut, but not before Peter can see his eyelids flutter with ecstasy at obeying the command.

Both of Stiles's hands are flat on the counter in front of him. Peter doesn't have anything nearby to tie them with, but then again—

"Stiles," he whispers, "bring your wrists closer together." A tiny shudder runs through his whole body as he does so. Peter rubs a hand along his back, soothing him like an animal, then drags his fingers down and circles them around each of Stiles's wrists.

"Cuffs," he whispers in Stiles's ear. "Metal. They're tight. They'll cut off your blood flow if you pull against them too hard." He sees Stiles's dick twitch at his words, a drop of liquid welling up at the tip.

"Thank—thank you," Stiles gasps out, and tries to strain against them, arms shaking with the effort. His hands stay locked in place, and his mouth is hanging open, stupid with pleasure.

Peter starts his circuit again, but stops to admire Stiles's ass, held up high and proud. "Perfect," he says, and Stiles arches his back more, showing off. Peter smiles, then reaches out and runs his thumbs over Stiles's cheeks in wide, sweeping circles. After a few seconds, he presses down and squeezes to feel the flesh warm and firm under his touch.

Stiles rocks back against him, bracing his bound arms against the counter for more leverage.

"Please, please, please," he repeats mindlessly, then whimpers as Peter finally takes mercy and spreads him open—only to stop and stare.

Stiles—Stiles is wet and glistening for him. The reddened folds of his hole gape hungrily when Peter runs a gentle finger against them, wonderingly.

"Ohh," Peter says. "You brilliant, beautiful little shit."

Stiles is barely coherent, soft cries falling from his mouth as his hips twitch and circle, trying to push against Peter and get something, anything inside him.

"Shh, shh," Peter soothes distractedly, fixated on the wet, dripping cunt in front of him. How—

The spark. Of course. Stiles's conscious mind is repressed by Peter's control, and so all the doubts and fears that he usually has to overcome to work a spell are missing. Stiles's potential is running wild, shaping his body and the world around him any way he wants.

Or any way Peter tells him to want.

The possibilities are _staggering_. His mind reels at the world of ideas opening up in front of him. With this kind of power . . .

His hands have stopped moving, and Stiles is whining for attention, swaying his hips back and forth to make his spasming hole rub against Peter's fingers.

"I'm sorry, baby." The endearment slips out before he can stop it, but it feels right in his mouth. Everything Stiles is going to be able to give him—

"Inside, need you inside," Stiles is muttering feverishly.

Peter's original plan had been to use his fingers and his tongue. Full penetration was too time-consuming and messy, not to mention the unnecessary drama that would result from Derek smelling Peter's come on the person he'd begun to think of, however unwillingly, as his mate.

But now, knowing what Stiles is capable of, what he might be capable of in the future . . . Peter groans. He has to be inside him. He needs to fill him up, bare and burning, try to breed him until it's dripping out of him. Let that hot hole work around him, mouth at him until he's destroyed it, left it gaping wide and ruined.

Stiles could carry his children, if he wanted. He can make his body do anything Peter wants. And to think, all that potential could have been wasted on _Derek_.

"You're mine," Peter growls as he reaches down with one hand and starts unbuttoning his jeans. The other hand traces gentle circles around the edges of Stiles's hole.

He'd like to see the nogitsune try to take over Stiles when he's swollen with Peter's pups, every inch of his body covered in Peter's scent.

_"Mine,"_ he says again, and leans forward to lick Stiles's hungry little mouth of an asshole. Stiles gasps and thrusts his hips up and back, smearing his slick onto Peter's face, his chin.

Peter laps at him for a moment, the taste salty and rich on his tongue, but his cock is throbbing, and the feeling of Stiles trembling under his lips is too much. He grabs Stiles by the hips and drags him off the counter until his body is slumped against Peter, his head tipped onto Peter's shoulder, his back pressed to Peter's chest, his ass cheeks parting to let Peter slide his dick between them. His hands, invisibly bound by his own power, are still resting on the granite in front of him.

Stiles turns his head just enough to bury his nose against Peter's neck.

"Feels nice," he mumbles. "Feels . . . mmmm . . ." He trails off as Peter reaches down between them and starts to work his cock into Stiles's dripping hole.

As that burning, slick flesh closes tight around the head of his cock, Peter can feel his eyes rolling back at how good it feels. He grits his teeth against the waves of sensation, and keeps pushing in.

The harder he presses, the more Stiles relaxes. His body opens up, enveloping Peter, welcoming him, until finally his ass is snug against Peter's hips, not one more inch inside him that Peter can reach.

"Stiles," he whispers. "Sleep."

And Stiles's body goes completely limp against him. His face slackens, and his tight hole lets out a hot gush of slick around him.

Peter runs his hands from Stiles's hips, up his sides, and grasps him around the shoulders as he begins to fuck in and out of him. Stiles's dead weight presses him into Peter's thrusts like he's desperate for it. His body opens and closes without thought or feeling. His head lolls on Peter's shoulder, but his heartbeat is steady in the rhythm of sleep.

Reaching down, Peter presses his fingers against Stiles's taut stomach, searching. He finds it, a swollen bulge where his dick is pressed, making a place for him inside Stiles's body. He rubs at it, feeling himself _through_ Stiles, and the thought is enough to send him over the edge. It pushes its way out of him slowly, gently: big hot pulses of fluid that will flood Stiles's body, marking him, breeding him, filling him up.

It seems to go on and on. Stiles's sleeping body is an unrelenting pressure all around him, still grasping at him hungrily. There is a warm spatter of fluid against his fingers, and he looks down to see that Stiles's cock, untouched, is spitting out his own little load. Peter brings his fingers up to his mouth and licks them clean, then reaches down again to feel Stiles's stomach, the bulge now more pronounced where Stiles is swollen with his come.

Peter slowly lowers both of them to the floor, his dick softening but still buried in Stiles's ass. He curls around the sleeping boy, brushes his hair back from his forehead, scents his neck, drags his lips against his throat.

"Mine," he says again, and Stiles murmurs sleepily in reply.

***

"And how are the nightmares, Stiles?" the new counselor asks.

"Much better, yeah," he says. "I'm definitely sleeping through the night more often."

"That's wonderful progress, Stiles!" she enthuses. He nods, shifting in his seat.

"Yeah," he says again, and tries to ignore the fact that he's hard.

**Author's Note:**

> Standard disclaimer: This isn't how hypnotism works IRL (you can't put someone in a trance against their will).
> 
> Feel free to point out any typos, and I will gladly correct!


End file.
